


Phase One

by Bullfinch



Series: Sublimation [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blackwatch Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 04:03:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8272069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: Early Blackwatch. Gabriel takes Jesse on his first overseas mission to Ukraine.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to [Dissolution](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7642987) and [Resolve](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8039776/chapters/18413077). May be read either before or after those stories.
> 
> My knowledge of Kiev and Ukraine in general is rudimentary at best, so I apologize for any inaccuracies.

Gabriel raises a hand to knock on Jesse’s door but pauses when he hears voices from inside.

 _A_ voice. Interesting. Kid’s not supposed to be talking to anyone this late in the evening. His ties with Deadlock should be good and cut. So Gabriel taps the door open and eases inside.

No one in the bedroom, but the bathroom door is open and Jesse’s standing in front of the mirror in nothing but a pair of red boxers and a belt with a holster hanging off it. He’s skinny as ever, despite Gabriel’s ceaseless efforts to make him eat three meals a day; there’s a little bit of muscle definition from daily training but his ribs still poke out. His stupid revolver is in hand, brass and shiny, and he spins it and aims it at his reflection. “Easy there, partner,” he drawls.

Gabriel stares.

Jesse points a lopsided grin at the mirror, putting on an exaggerated slouch. “Step right up.”

Gabriel waits just a moment longer. Maybe it’s over. Maybe it was only a momentary lapse. Maybe.

Jesse holsters the gun and then draws ( _fast,_ like always). He mugs at his reflection. “It’s high noon.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Gabriel asks.

Jesse jumps nearly out of his skin and whips around. “I— _boss?”_ he squawks, jamming the ridiculous revolver back into his belt. “I wasn’t—I mean—“

Gabriel waves him off. “Never mind, forget it. You ever been to Ukraine?”

Jesse stares at him for a moment, then straightens, jamming his hands under his armpits as if to cover himself. “No, sir. Never been outside the United States.”

“Thought you’d say that. Here.” Gabriel tosses the forged papers on the bed, followed by a pocket guide to the Ukrainian language. “You can read it on the plane. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

——

“Hot damn,” Jesse mutters. “And I thought Phoenix was bad.”

Gabriel shrugs. “Seen worse. You should get down to New Orleans sometime.”

Kiev is destroyed.

Not the whole city. But a huge swath of it, spanning both sides of the river. The Omnics hit it hard fifteen years ago and the rebuilding has only just begun to shrink the devastation. The city government is covering it up well, with temporary barriers surrounding much of the bombed-out area. _Construction,_ the signs say in Ukrainian. Yeah, some of it. The rest they just don’t want visitors to see.

It’s hard to police people in here.

The debris has mostly been piled up so it blocks only some of the streets, the heaps casting long shadows in the setting sun; but a few of the larger chunks of concrete have been left where they are, too heavy to be moved without proper equipment. Street vendors use them as platforms to hawk cheaply made wares, gesturing excitedly and calling out with phrases Gabriel can half-interpret; his Ukrainian is still shit despite the brushing-up on the plane. Small groups of people stand gathered around heating coils, wrapped in ratty coats, their breath misting in the air as they talk amongst themselves. He pushes his sunglasses up and tugs the edge of his scarf up over his nose. Dark skin isn’t especially common here and it wouldn’t do to be remembered.

Jesse ducks his nose inside his collar. “It’s too goddamn cold,” he mumbles. His wool hat is jammed down low over his ears, his silly little ponytail poking out beneath it.

“Suck it up, kid,” Gabriel murmurs. “Still a ways to go.”

They pass by buildings yawning open, the tops shorn or the sides fallen in, deep shadows darkening the destroyed rooms. Children in worn coats clamber up the pocked walls, shouting and squealing. Sometimes parents are there to accompany them, sometimes not. But even the children know where the borders are, the areas in which they’re not supposed to play; because the shouting and squealing fade, and the number of street vendors dwindles to nothing, as Gabriel and Jesse advance.

“Okay.” Gabriel glances at his wristwatch, at the holodisplay popping up to guide them. “Should be just a few more blocks down.”

He taps the glasses and a hazy heat filter appears over his vision. No one here but for two figures down the street. Gabriel flips off the filter to inspect them more closely. A pair of heavyset men in bulky jackets (guns concealed underneath, no doubt) stand at the entrance of a tall, relatively preserved building. Wisps of smoke rise into the air above them, and uproarious laughter bounces off the destroyed structures as one of them tosses his cigarette down and grinds it under his heel.

“Guards,” Gabriel tells Jesse. “Let’s check the back.”

They duck down an alley and make a right, only to find a twenty-foot pile of twisted I-bars and concrete chunks blocking their way. Jesse, as always eager to impress, starts climbing first, his gloved hands grasping the snapped steel girders for support.

But as soon as he reaches the top the concrete shifts and he loses his footing. With a stifled yelp he tips backwards, arms flailing as he slides down a section of wall.

Gabriel lets out a quiet sigh and steps in. The kid can shoot like a pro but he’s a goddamn klutz. Gabriel raises his arms and arrests Jesse’s fall with one hand on his lower back and the other under his bony ass.

Jesse cringes. “Sorry, boss.”

“Just climb.” Gabriel gives him a shove. Jesse scrambles up the concrete, this time making the top without any issues. Gabriel follows, the soles of his boots gripping the blast-pocked concrete.

No guards around back. Ms. Fedorchuk doesn’t return to Kiev until tomorrow, after all. The structure itself doesn’t look quite so nice from the rear; the left corner has completely collapsed, exposing three stories of broken rooms with torn burgundy wallpaper. It must have been a nice place once. Gabriel peers up. “Let’s start on the top floor.” He indicates the dividing wall, shorn away to reveal jutting support beams and sprays of frayed wire. “Can you climb that? Without falling this time?”

“Yeah,” Jesse sulks, and starts the ascent.

He’s somewhat more careful this time, Gabriel notes. Not completely hopeless then. The concrete is smoothed by weather but a few floorboards remain, sticking out on the destroyed side, and Gabriel follows Jesse up to the third floor without difficulty. To the right there’s a gap that leads into the mostly intact side of the structure; he reaches inside, gets a foot on the floor, and tries to wedge the rest of his body through. It’s not especially easy. (Probably was for Jesse and his skinny ass, Gabriel thinks with irritation.) When he finally pops inside, gasping, Jesse is standing there with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Maybe you wanna drop a few pounds, huh, boss?”

“Keep your voice down,” Gabriel replies. “Also, if you say anything like that again I’ll break your fingers. That the office?”

Jesse shrugs. “Looks like.”

Gabriel would never actually break his fingers. Has gone no further than grabbing his shirt collar once or twice to shout at him better during training. But only when it’s deserved, and he hands out praise too—again, only when deserved. The door Jesse indicates is heavy mahogany, the electronic lock glowing softly below the handle. Gabriel flicks on his heat filter again. No one inside, as expected. He stows the glasses in his coat and pulls out the skeleton key, holds the bulky black box up to the lock. After a few seconds the light blooms green and the door clicks. Gabriel taps it open.

The office is cozy despite the devastation outside. The desk is the same fine mahogany as the door, the surface polished and shining in the orange light that filters through the windows. An arc screen sits on top of it. The walls are covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with books, the leather covers dyed in rich, varied colors. A few photographs hang in between—the 2042 Olympics in Novgorod; a square filled with people during what looks like the Euromaidan.

“Here.” Gabriel tosses Jesse the skeleton key. He has a hunch. “Work on that computer.”

Jesse goes over and spools the cable out of the black box, plugs it into the hub. The screen wakes, glowing white-blue, the holodisplay blooming to life above it. Gabriel drifts over to the Olympics photograph and lifts it away from the wall. More burgundy wallpaper. He replaces it with care and goes to the photo of the packed square. Nothing there either.

Jesse leans on the desk, drumming his fingers. Gabriel moves to the bookshelves. Dusty. Good. An interruption in the dust in front of a well-worn copy of a torrid-looking romance novel, but only wall behind. He goes to the other side of the room.

A lighter coating in front of a group of biographies of Ukrainian artists. Huh. Gabriel reaches in and pulls out all of them at once, hefting them in his arms.

A combination safe with a brass knob stares back at him. _“Joder,”_ he curses.

Jesse looks up. _“¿Que pasa?”_

“Safe. Mechanical, not electronic,” Gabriel mutters.

Jesse snorts. “Kinda behind the times.”

“Look who’s talking, _vaquero,”_ Gabriel shoots back. “Anyway, it’s actually pretty smart. Mechanical safe can’t be hacked.”

“Ah, shit. Yeah, that’s a good point.”

Gabriel thinks for a minute, then pulls one glove off with his teeth. “Let me try something.”

He rests his fingertips on the black metal and grasps the knob with his other hand.

He doesn’t like to use the nanomachines. They aren’t a tool, not like the skeleton key—they _change_ him, physically, and he’s found that his control over that change is loose at best. Most of the time he can’t even figure out what they’re actually doing. The artificial intelligence seems to take its own liberties carrying out his commands.

But this could be important. So he issues the command.

Suddenly beneath his fingertips he can feel the ridges of black paint, the grain of the metal beneath. The vibrations of his own heartbeat, transmitted through the knob from the fingers of his other hand. It frightens him how much information he can sense now. He shouldn’t be able to do that. He’s a human being.

“We’re in,” Jesse says behind him.

Right. They shouldn’t linger any longer than necessary. Gabriel turns the knob, feeling each tick as the notches slide by; then the first _click_ thunders against his fingers.

It’s easy from there. After two more clicks the door pops open to reveal a stack of ledgers (real paper, leather-bound) stuffed inside. Just as unhackable as the safe. Fedorchuk’s a smart woman. Gabriel shakes his hand out, pleading with the nanomachines to turn him back to normal. He’s just a person, a soldier. He shouldn’t be more. Shouldn’t be… _other._

“Hey…you okay, boss?”

Gabriel glances over his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he growls. “Grab these, I’ll take a look at the computer.”

Jesse comes over and starts tugging the ledgers out, piling them in his arms. Gabriel goes to the computer. The screen displays a muted blue background with a scattering of icons to one side, but the skeleton key is still at work. Gabriel doubts the computer’s set up to transfer files to external devices—at least not unfamiliar ones. It might be a minute. He thinks of scanning for important information, but they aren’t in too much of a rush. After all, Fedorchuk’s not back until—

Voices from below.

More than two. _Fuck._ What the hell? One of the voices is female—authoritarian, and Gabriel can tell even with his shitty Ukrainian that she’s issuing orders.

Fedorchuk. He’d bet money on it. Back a whole day earlier than Blackwatch told him she’d be. And he and Jesse are standing in her office.

The voices are getting closer, moving upstairs. Gabriel looks over to find Jesse frozen, wide-eyed. He’s figured it out too. “Hey,” Gabriel calls softly, shutting down the computer and grabbing the skeleton key. With luck, they can make it out unnoticed. “Take what you can and let’s go.”

Jesse nods jerkily, gathering up a half-dozen bulky ledgers, and rises.

The place is well-maintained, which means the door doesn’t creak when he opens it. He sidles up to the gap in the wall and peers down, checking the rear. No one in the alley, so their escape route should—

A loud _slap_ from behind him. Gabriel whips around. Jesse is staring ashen-faced at the floor, where one of the ledgers has slipped from his arms and landed on the wooden boards. The voices from below go silent.

Gabriel comes over and grasps Jesse’s arm. “Leave the rest,” he says evenly, keeping his voice down. “We need to run. You go first, I’ll cover you.”

For a second Jesse remains frozen and Gabriel thinks he’ll need a slap in the face; but then he crouches, sets down the other ledgers, and darts to the gap. Footsteps thudding up the stairs beneath them. Shit. Gabriel backs up and draws his pistol from the shoulder holster. Jesse squeezes through just as the first thug barges into the room, weapon drawn.

Gabriel fires. Not the headshot he was hoping for, but it skims the guy’s neck and blood bursts bright from the wound, spattering on the wall behind. The guy makes a noise of pain and stumbles back. No time. Gabriel jams himself into the gap.

And sticks. Fucking shit. Not a skinny little fucker like the kid. But he has to get out of here. Has to escape. Has to—

His body changes.

It ripples, the tissue reallocating itself, flowing from one side of the gap to the other. He makes it just as a gunshot cracks into the wall behind him.

The way down is much quicker than the way up, Gabriel sliding recklessly, his gloves barely grasping the concrete. Jesse’s pistol is out (a real one, not his stupid fucking revolver) and he aims at the gap, one eye squeezed shut; when he fires there’s a scream from above. Kid’s a deadeye. Gabriel hits the ground and gestures. “Let’s go!”

They run.

The pile of rubble is in their way again. Goddamnit. Gabriel spins, laying down cover fire while Jesse scrambles over the top. More bodyguards with shaven, pale heads and thick necks pour into the alley, only to heave themselves back around the corner to avoid the shots. Then Jesse calls, “Go!” so Gabriel turns and starts climbing. The snaps of pistol reports from above—Jesse covering him now. He pumps his legs, makes the top and slides down the other side. Jesse is right behind him. A narrow side street to their right—Gabriel takes it.

“Think we can outrun ‘em?” Jesse asks breathlessly.

Gabriel glances over. “Fedorchuk owns Kiev. Those aren’t her only foot soldiers. Keep your eyes open.” He tacks left to avoid a fallen-in building, then turns another corner. But as he hits the next cross street there’s a shout from off to the right. Fuck. Spotted. Gabriel puts his back to the shout and runs. Heat filters are bad at distance, and if he can find people again they’ll be useless anyway. Another fucking heap of debris. Gabriel spins, raising his pistol. The thugs are sprinting toward him so he gives Jesse some cover fire, watching them duck behind broken walls.

They’re not shooting back. Not yet, anyway. Fedorchuk will want him and Jesse captured alive to find out who they’re working for. That can’t happen. Gabriel doesn’t mind a little torture but Jesse is nineteen years old and thousands of miles from home. He can’t go through that.

“Come on, boss!”

Gabriel turns and climbs. Jesse fires, hunkered down. “We need to get somewhere more crowded!” Gabriel tells him, clambering over top of the rubble. He slides down the other side and flicks the map up out of his wristwatch as he runs. Someplace with plenty of people to get lost in, someplace close by.

Ploshcha Konstytutsii. He read about it on the plane—used to be a well-trafficked square, and it might still be even after the bombing. It’s their best shot. Gabriel leads Jesse north. They go by a pair of old men sitting on a stoop, passing a cigar between them. A flicker of movement from the left—Gabriel turns and fires, gets off two shots before his pistol clicks empty. The thug stumbles back with a pair of bullet holes in his jacket—but no blood pumping from them because he’s wearing goddamn body armor and his friend is coming up behind him too—

Two shots and both men’s heads snap back one after the other, blood bursting from their foreheads. Gabriel turns and starts running again, smacking Jesse’s arm. Fucking deadeye. He ejects his empty clip and pulls another from his coat, jamming it into the butt of the pistol. That’s his only extra. Eighteen more bullets and he’s out. This wasn’t supposed to be a combat mission. A pair of teenagers huddle in a wrecked building, eyes wide with fear. More people. A good sign. He checks the map again, jerks his head and goes down an alley, dodging a heap of splintered furniture. Just a few more blocks. He chooses a jagged path, hoping to break their pursuers’ line of sight. Almost—

They burst out onto the square.

Immediately Gabriel stows his gun, slides his glasses back on and pulls his scarf up; Jesse ducks his chin into his collar. Gabriel sets the pace, slow and measured. The square is fairly crowded, a couple of hundred people here strolling past two dozen street vendors still shouting for customers even though the shadows are so long they stretch from one side of the square to the other. He and Jesse pass a man selling jewelry, thick gold-painted chains and glittering bracelets set in plastic displays in front of him. Just beyond is a woman with gaudily printed scarves hanging from rickety wooden racks. She smiles at them, displaying tobacco-stained teeth.

“What’s the plan, boss?”

Jesse’s voice is shaking. “Calm down,” Gabriel replies. “We’re gonna get out of this.”

Jesse swallows. “I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

Gabriel grimaces, exasperated. “You didn’t fuck up, McCree. You dropped a book. Shitty luck, it happens to everyone.” He shoots a look over his shoulder. Among the milling crowd no thugs appear, not yet. “Anyway, they’re probably moving Fedorchuk and anything useful we could steal as we speak, so it’s pointless going back. I’m gonna call for an extraction.” He reaches up to tug at his beanie, taps his earpiece on as he does it. “Stalwart, this is Reaper. We’ve got a problem.”

A faint whine as the transmission comes through. “Reaper, this is Stalwart. What the hell happened?”

“The intel you gave us was bad. Fedorchuk showed up while we were in her goddamn office. We’ve lost our pursuers for now, but we need an escape plan. We’re too outnumbered here.”

A pause. Then: “Negative, Reaper. We need that information. We’ve got a combat unit sixty minutes out, stay where you are to assist when they arrive.”

For a moment Gabriel is too flabbergasted to respond. “I—did you not fucking hear me? We’re made, Fedorchuk owns this goddamn city, and I have eighteen bullets left! We’re not gonna survive sixty goddamn minutes!”

Stockman’s voice drops to a low, dangerous chill. “You need to get your shit together, Reaper. You’re staying in that fucking city to assist support when they get there. Do you understand?”

Gabriel forces himself to pause and weigh the situation. They might be able to stay hidden for a full hour, but more likely they’ll fail; Fedorchuk is rich and takes attacks on her business very personally. No matter where they hide she’ll be after them, for capture and interrogation.

He glances to his left. Even with half Jesse’s face hidden by the collar the guilt and fear are plain as day. He thinks the whole thing is his fault even thought it’s really fucking not, and before this morning he’d never been outside the United States. He doesn’t know anything here.

Gabriel thinks of him tied to a chair in some dingy basement, stripped naked with electrodes clamped to his skin, jerking as the current surges through his body, his screams filling the filthy room.

“With all due respect, _sir,_ if we stay here we’re fucked,” Gabriel tells Stockman. “We’re getting out. Your team will have to go after Fedorchuk on their own.”

Stockman starts tor reply but Gabriel turns the earpiece off.

“What happened?” Jesse asks.

Gabriel shakes his head. “Stockman wanted us to stay. I declined.”

“You—but won’t he be mad?”

Gabriel shrugs with one shoulder. “It’s okay, I’ll take the heat.”

“Shit.” Jesse covers his face. “I fucked up. I fucked up.”

“No you didn’t,” Gabriel replies steadily. “Whoever fed us that bad intel fucked up. You had nothing to do with it. You understand?”

Jesse scrubs at his eyes and tucks his hands under his armpits, sniffling. “We’re gonna fail the mission,” he says quietly.

Gabriel sighs. “Look, McCree, I really don’t give a shit whether or not Stockman gets his information. Like I said, I’ll take the heat, don’t worry about it.”

But Jesse’s eyes aren’t on him anymore, instead focused on a spot above his head. When Jesse draws it’s so fast Gabriel flinches from the suddenness of it rather than the gunshot itself.

There goes the fucking stealth approach. Instead of snapping at Jesse Gabriel turns to figure out what the hell he shot. Not hard with everyone fleeing, the nearby vendors hurriedly gathering their wares. But there’s no one bleeding on the ground. Only—

 _“Fuck.”_ Gabriel stamps on the drone, grinding it under his boot. Well spotted—the thing is the size of his thumb. They have to go. But where? How do they get out of the goddamn city without twenty of Fedorchuk’s flunkies on their heels? Could steal a car, but all the ones in the bombed-out district are bound to be rusted-out pieces of shit, and the better parts of town have too many cameras.

Maybe they don’t need a car.

Gabriel pulls his map up, squints at it for a second, and gestures. “This way!”

They sprint across the square. Shouts from behind them. Fuck. Gabriel tries to focus on his breathing. Can’t run out of steam too early. It’s a good thing he’s been making the kid do cardio, despite the endless complaining.

The buildings here are newer—were newer before they got blown up by the Omnics. The concrete is smoother, the shattered edges not eroded but crystalline in structure. And the broken sections are bigger, tilted over the alleys such that he has to duck beneath them when they’re too low. But it isn’t far—

They burst out onto the riverside walkway.

The broad surface of the Dnieper River is choppy at this hour, disturbed by the day’s boat traffic. There are a few boats still out now, chugging sedately down the river. Gabriel stops for a second—only one second, scans left and right (the glasses filtering down the brilliant reflection of the sunset on the surface of the water). There, downriver, a dock with a small collection of boats. It’s back toward Fedorchuk’s center of operations but they’ll have to take the chance. Gabriel starts running again. Some sections of the walkway have fallen into the water, and they have to dodge inland for a block or two before heading back to the river to keep their bearings.

Gabriel spares a glance over his shoulder. One, two, three, four guys on their tail. Still not shooting, but that’s gonna change as soon as they get out on the water. Gabriel draws his pistol again. Eighteen bullets. And Jesse’s been putting down cover fire too.

The docks draw nearer. He tries to gauge. Looks like fishing boats, mostly. Not good. Those things aren’t built for speed, not to mention they’re bulky, which makes them easy targets. He dearly hopes one of them has a functional dinghy.

There’s an elderly woman sitting on a folding chair at the edge of the dock, a fishing rod in her hands. She glances up as they approach. “Run!” Gabriel calls to her, waving his arm, then struggles to dig up the Ukrainian word. _“Zapusk!”_

She’s already gotten the idea, grabbing up her silver bucket and hobbling away from the water. “McCree!” Gabriel jerks his head. “Find us a dinghy! One with a good motor!”

One good shot’ll take a dinghy out, but they’re quick and fairly maneuverable, and he doesn’t need to hack the ignition to start it up. Jesse darts down the dock and Gabriel positions himself behind one of the high wooden posts, watching and waiting.

The thugs are coming. He sees them down the walkway.

Can they really get out of this?

Gabriel raises his weapon and fires.

He keeps his body behind the post, shooting one-handed. Doesn’t need to be accurate. Just needs to keep them back. The group of thugs scramble into a blasted-out structure; he pauses a moment, waits until one pokes his head out, and starts firing again.

Eighteen bullets. How many has he used? Doesn’t matter. He has to use them.

Fast motion to his left. Startled, he spins and squeezes off three quick shots. Two thud into the guy’s body armor but the last one rips into his mouth, the lower half of his face exploding in a spray of blood. The man collapses to his knees, grasping his destroyed jaw, a wounded noise gurgling out of him. Gabriel rotates and fires again at the others who thought they might take advantage of his distraction.

“Boss! Let’s go!”

One final shot and then the pistol clicks empty. Gabriel spins, finds Jesse at the end of the dock with his own weapon raised. Jesse points to his left at one of the fishing boats; Gabriel leaps onto it as a series of shots rings out behind him. Cover fire. Over the far side of the boat he finds a dinghy already lowered into the water.

It’s rusty and bare, a blue-painted shell without even a bench to sit on. But the motor looks like it’s been cared for, and there’s a red jug of fuel beside it. Gabriel swings his body over the gunwale and lands in the dinghy, frees the crusty line from the cleat. “McCree!” he shouts.

The shots get a little closer above him. Jesse appears on the deck of the fishing boat—

More shots. That’s not Jesse’s pistol. They’ve started shooting. Shit. Jesse stumbles back against the gunwale—was he hit? No, no, no—swings over it and lands in the dinghy. Gabriel wraps the engine cord around his hand and gives it a good hard yank.

The motor roars to life. Gabriel shoves the tiller hard and guns the engine. The dinghy fishtails a little with the acceleration but then they’re jetting off down the river. As they retreat Jesse fires off a few more shots to cover them—that’s not his pistol.

It’s the fucking revolver. Jesus. Gabriel rubs his forehead. “I can’t believe you fucking brought that thing.”

Jesse shrugs. “Thought it might be useful. And I ran out of pistol ammo.”

“So did I,” Gabriel mutters. “You hurt?”

“Nah, they didn’t get me. You?”

“No.”

Gunfire from behind them. Gabriel grabs Jesse by the collar and yanks his head down, getting as low as he can himself. There’s a _ping_ as one of the bullets ricochets off the hull. But no stutter in the noise of the motor. Thank fuck. Then the gunfire stops. Too much distance.

Gabriel rises a little, looking back. The group of men stand on the dock, making no move to steal another dinghy and pursue. Maybe they aren’t that smart.

Or maybe there’s another reason. “Keep an eye out, kid,” Gabriel says. “I don’t like this.”

Jesse snorts. “Which part?”

Gabriel doesn’t reply, just keeps his gaze cast down the glittering river. He heads for the middle of it; water yawns out on either side of him, the bank growing further and further away. The sense of something unfinished is scratching at the back of his mind. The dinghy bounces on the choppy water, worse because he’s going so fast. The constant jarring is annoying, but he’ll deal with it. “Hey. How are we for fuel?”

Jesse leans over the motor. “Uh…two-thirds full in the motor.” He picks up the jug. “And this feels pretty heavy.”

“Okay. Good.”

Down the river, he thinks, until the darkness obscures the satellites and he can put in at some wild spot barren of people. They don’t have anything close to camping supplies—not to mention food—but he thinks they’ll live.

As long as they can get out of the city, anyway. And they’re not out yet. He has a bad feeling.

A faint whine over the water. Gabriel squints, spins up the zoom on his glasses.

Two motorboats packed with men.

The guys on the dock must have called in to their friends. That’s it. The dinghy can outrun a shitty fishing boat but not a motorboat, let alone two. Gabriel spins the zoom down again and sits back. “Sorry, kid. I really thought we had a chance.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Jesse peers into the distance, squinting against the sunlight on the river.

“They got a pair of motorboats coming up to meet us.” Gabriel lets up on the throttle grip. “We can’t outrun them.”

“Only two?”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “That’s more than enough.”

Jesse pops out the cylinder of his revolver, inspects it, then flicks it back in. “Still got two bullets left. I can take ‘em out.”

Gabriel stares. “You—what? With _two bullets?”_

Jesse gives him a lopsided grin. “That’s more ’n’ enough.”

He doesn’t want to believe it. Better to accept what’s coming than watch all his hopes fall down around him. The image of Jesse again, his back arching off the chair as the electric current shoots through him. “Jesse…” Gabriel trails off. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I can do it, boss.” The lopsided grin disappears. He’s serious now. “Give me a shot at the motors. Go up the west bank, let’s keep the sun in their eyes.”

Gabriel exhales. “I’ll slow down so we’re not bouncing around as—“

“No, that’ll make it easier for ‘em to hit us. Keep our speed up.”

Going over this chop at close to ten knots, the wind blowing in their faces. Gabriel is quiet for a moment as they draw closer. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“You betcha.” The smile is back. “Just give me a clear shot.”

Fine. He can do that much. For now he maintains his trajectory. “Just do me a favor and stay down, all right? In case they start shooting.”

Jesse nods and hunkers down.

The motorboats draw closer. Gabriel waits and waits—needs to be sure of getting the angle. It’s the only chance they’ve got. One pistol shot rings out, then a second. The motorboats, engines roaring, are thirty yards away. Twenty-five. Almost…

“Hold on!” he barks, and shoves the tiller away from him, jerking the dinghy into a hard right turn. With one eye on the two boats he manipulates the trajectory, curving the dinghy downriver even as he races toward the west bank. The sound of the motorboats’ engines dies, revs up again as they turn. Good. He goes straight downriver now, shooting past their pursuers.

Jesse goes to one knee on the floor of the dinghy and raises his revolver.

The motorboats get up to speed quickly, and Gabriel draws up as close as he can to the bank, giving the throttle all he can. Gunfire reaches his ears and is stolen away by the wind. The bouncing of the dinghy over the chop is painful, jars him down to his bones. But Jesse hardly seems to notice it, the barrel of the revolver balanced on his wrist.

Gabriel prays.

The crack of the revolver. The engine noise from their left grows harsh and hacking. Gabriel looks up.

The first motorboat is descending, its body splashing back down into the water. Its wake grows high and heavy as it slows.

Unbelievable.

The second boat was further out and now approaches them at a diagonal. Shit. That’s a bad angle. “Hang on, kid!” Gabriel calls, cutting the throttle all at once. Without the propellor going the dinghy crashes back down, water slopping up briefly over the bow. The motorboat doesn’t adjust quickly enough, coming up alongside. More shots ring out.

Jesse flinches and grunts. Then he fires.

The engine noise goes high and grinding, and the second motorboat also throws up a spray as its body falls back into the water. Gabriel grins wide as he watches its trajectory send it smashing into the concrete bank. He guns the dinghy engine, points it toward the middle of the river and speeds out before Fedorchuk’s thugs can get their heads back on straight and start shooting again. By the time the pistol reports come they’re already well out of range, a long stretch of glittering water behind them.

Jesse sits back, grasping his shoulder.

Fuck. “They hit you?” Gabriel asks sharply.

“It ain’t bad.” Jesse pulls his hand away, inspects his glove. “Just grazed me, that’s all.”

“Do you need me to—“

“I’m fine, boss. I promise, it don’t even hurt that much.”

Fine. He’s fine. Fedorchuk’s cronies are stuck drifting. And further down the river he sees the thick green of fir trees lining the banks.

Gabriel lets out a long breath. “That was some damn good shooting, kid.”

A surprised grin. “Uh—thanks, boss!”

Gabriel smirks. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

“Understood.”

Stockman will be pissed. Gabriel doesn’t really want to think about how he’ll be punished when they get back. At least Jesse will be spared. He’ll do his damnedest to make sure that happens.

“Uh…you okay, boss? You look kinda…”

“Fine,” Gabriel grunts, and yanks the scarf from his neck, holding it out. “Here. Put it on your arm.”

Jesse takes it. “Thanks.” For a moment he just holds it in his hands, staring at the floor of the boat. “Boss…I’m sorry. I can tell Commander St—“

“Goddamnit, McCree, I said don’t worry about that,” Gabriel growls. “Just keep your head down and let me deal with him. That’s an order.”

Jesse nods, his fingers curling into the scarf. Then he shakes it out and wraps it around his arm. The sun sinks lower, and tall, dark trees attend them as they skim down the Dnieper, the surface ablaze in the dying light.

——

Gabriel doesn’t stop until it’s well and dark.

They’ve passed a few towns, but this area is too swampy to build on. He takes a wide, shallow tributary that snakes deeper into the wetlands, peering into the dark for a firmer spot of land to make camp—there, a lone, bare tree, its pale branches grasping jaggedly at the night sky. He points the boat in that direction—can’t quite get there but puts in as near to it as he can, driving the bow up on a bank of mud. “Okay, let’s cover this thing.”

There’s plenty of reeds and cattails around, and by the time the job’s finished they get the boat hidden fairly well. Likely an unnecessary precaution, but Gabe is in the mood to be careful. “Come on.” He gestures.

Jesse’s hands are jammed under his armpits. He was shivering during the boat ride but with the exertion of tearing those reeds out of the frozen mud the shivering has fallen away. Under the branches of the tree he seems to relax a little, finding an anchor in the openness of the vast, dark marsh.

Gabriel puts his hands on his hips and lets out a long sigh. “You bring anything else useful with you besides that revolver?”

Jesse digs in his jacket and comes up with a protein bar. Then he digs in his pants pocket and comes up with a flask.

Gabriel can’t help rolling his eyes. “Well, I guess it’ll help keep you warm. Here, take this.” He tosses Jesse the water bottle they were sharing on the boat. It’s still half-full, at least. “I’m gonna go look for firewood.”

Jesse raises a questioning eyebrow. “Won’t it all be soggy?”

“We’ve got boat fuel to get the fire started.” Synthetic stuff’s not as good as the real thing, but it’ll do. “I’ll be back soon.”

He trudges inland.

The moon’s bright, softly illuminating the frozen marsh in crystalline white. He scans his surroundings with inattention. They do need firewood, it’s true.

But he also has to make a call.

When he’s certain he’s out of earshot, Gabriel taps the earpiece. “Stalwart, this is Reaper.”

The thin whine as the line activates and Stockman’s voice comes through. “We lost Fedorchuk. She fled after you two skipped the city.”

“Well, sir, I’m sorry to hear that, but if we’d stayed she would have fled with two captives long before your guys arrived.”

“Don’t fucking try me, Reaper,” comes the snarl. “What the fuck do you want?”

Gabriel takes a deep breath. “Yearling and I are alive, in some swamp down the Dnieper. We could use an extraction.”

A faintly staticky sigh. “That combat unit is still trying to hunt down Fedorchuk. We don’t have anyone else nearby right now. Look for a team in the morning.”

That was…more polite than he expected. “Yes, sir.”

“We’re not done with this, Reaper. You and I are going to have a nice, long talk when you get back.”

Gabriel grimaces. “Yes, sir.”

The line cuts out. Gabriel stops and just stands for a minute. A cold breeze blows past him, and he reaches up for his scarf when he realizes it’s still tied around Jesse’s arm. That’s fine. The marsh is quiet, the winter having driven most of its inhabitants into hibernation or to warmer climes. The moonlight shimmers off the dozens of little tributaries that flow through it, the glimmers of light like dewdrops on a spiderweb. In the distance an owl hoots.

Firewood.

Gabriel sighs and plants one foot in front of the other.

In the distance he spots a group of trees, so he heads in that direction, stepping carefully so as not to dunk his feet in the freezing water. They got out. It was close, but they got out. All thanks to Jesse and his stupid revolver and his incredible aim. He still thinks it’s his fault—Gabriel crouches to inspect a fallen branch, finds it too rotted to be useful—but that can only heal with time. The fact that nothing bad happened will help. Well, except for whatever Stockman’s going to do to Gabriel on their return.

He tries not to dwell on it, concentrating instead on piling branches together to stomp them into pieces. But his focus fails soon enough as he yanks his boot out of the mess of wood. Solitary confinement isn’t out of the question. No trial, either, Blackwatch doesn’t do court-martialing like Overwatch does. They know he heals fast, they might make him “volunteer” for testing of some of their scientists’ brand-new weapons. Or maybe they’ll modify his body again. He’s already got the nanomachines; maybe they’ll add a new variety, or they’ll replace his arms or his eyes or something with augmented prosthetics.

Gabriel realizes he’s drawn to a stop, standing still above the pile of branches. Right. Firewood. Jesse’s probably freezing his ass off.

As least _he’ll_ be okay. It could have been worse. Could have been a lot worse.

There’s a scream across the marsh.

For a moment Gabriel thinks it was another owl hooting. It couldn’t have been a scream. There’s no one else here. But there _is_ someone else here.

Jesse.

Gabriel turns and runs.

 _Shouldn’t have left him alone, Reyes, shouldn’t have left him alone._ The words chase each other in his head. Useless. Won’t help him get there any faster. Another scream. Definitely not an owl. Gabriel tracks the ground with his eyes automatically, leaping from one mound of mud to another, choosing the ones with reeds rooted so they don’t collapse beneath him. Words now that he can’t quite make out—maybe _no, no, don’t—_

This can’t be happening.

They were out. They were _out._ How could they have been found? They’re in a goddamn swamp. And now—

The scream takes on a different timbre. Terror still, yes, but now pain also.

_I have to stop them. I have to stop them!_

His body changes.

Muscle growing light and springy, his legs pounding into the marsh with an animal sort of grace. Suddenly he was made to run. His joints fold and extend as if resistance and friction have been whittled from them by some precise, artful science. Fear clutches his gut again. He shouldn’t be like this. No one should be like this.

The screaming breaks into a single sob before it picks back up again.

Gabriel sprints, his eyes watering from the cold air rushing past him. He’s too late already. They have Jesse, they could kill him at any moment. The single bare tree is clear now in the moonlight. Gabriel sees what he shouldn’t, his eyes scanning wavelengths and picking out those most useful now. Three bulky figures in black coats with pale, shaved heads. Fedorchuk’s men. And on the ground a fourth figure. Skinny, writhing.

Jesse.

One of the men kneels. There’s a pistol report and Jesse screams as Gabriel has rarely heard—full-throated, harsh and high, staggered as he gasps for breath. Pure agony. Gabriel is already too late but Jesse’s still alive. Still alive. Still—

_I have to stop them._

He closes the distance at last.

His body knows what to do even though he hasn’t thought of a plan yet—the man rising just as Gabriel grabs his head and drags it down to cave his nose in with a savage knee. The man goes limp but Gabriel drags his body up and ducks behind him for a shield. Immediately the man jerks as shots fill the air, and he makes an ugly noise as he begins to die. The gun starts to slip from his hand but Gabriel grabs it first.

He can’t see the other two—this one is too goddamn big—but somehow he can tell from the sound of the pistol reports where they are, can even construct an odds-based estimate of where their heads will be in space based on where they’re holding their weapons. The decision to act seems to arrive a split-second after he’s raising his weapon and squeezing off one shot, then rotating (his movements exact, boots grinding into the frozen mud) and firing the second round.

Two wet _thuds._ The gunfire stops.

Gabriel drops his shield, weapon still raised.

The two men are down—not _just_ down but obliterated, their heads blown into nothing but sprays of tissue, blood and bone that decorate the mud above their empty necks. What? They used explosive rounds? Then—

Jesse.

His screaming starts up again as Gabriel kneels, stowing the pistol in his belt.“Hey, kid, it’s okay,” he murmurs, though he doubts Jesse can hear him. “I got you, I’m gonna get you out of here.”

Blood coats Jesse’s nose and mouth, painted over the adolescent scruff that peppers his chin. One of his knees is bent at a strange angle. The worst of it Gabriel sees first but refuses to acknowledge until he must. Because he left Jesse here alone and then Fedorchuk’s thugs found him and did this.

His left arm is gone.

It’s not gone. It’s lying a couple of feet away. There’s a shredded stump a few inches below the shoulder that’s gushing blood. _Need to stop that,_ Gabriel thinks distantly, and yanks his belt off to wrap it above the wound. “Sorry, kid, this is gonna hurt.”

He cinches it as tight as he can. Jesse screams louder, clutching at the belt, but Gabriel guides his hand away and pulls it just a little bit tighter so the buckle can reach the next hole. “Listen, I’m gonna help you stand. We need to leave, I can’t take care of you here.”

“My—“ Jesse swallows, a tight whine bursting from his throat. “My arm—what did they do to my arm—“

“I’m sorry.” Gabriel drags Jesse’s good arm over his shoulder. “We can’t save it. But we have to go. Here, one, two, three—“

Jesse screams again when they stand, his broken leg buckling. Gabriel has to support almost all of his weight, staggering back toward the tributary. A plan. He needs a plan. Look for whatever boat the thugs came in? If Jesse didn’t hear it, then they must have left it pretty far up. The dinghy, then. Down the Dnieper until they find someplace with decent medical supplies.

“It hurts.” Jesse stifles a sob. “It—it hurts so much, what did they do to it—“

“I know. I know.” There’s the dinghy. Gabriel crouches, guiding Jesse to the ground and releasing him; then he swipes away their careful covering of reeds, shoves the boat down the bank and into the water. “Okay, let’s go, let’s get on the boat.”

When he turns Jesse has made the terrible discovery. He stares down at the ruined stump, noises of pain choking out of him. “It’s gone,” he whimpers. “It’s gone. They blew it off.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel admits, coming over to help him into the dinghy. “But we’re gonna take care of you, all right? You’ll be okay.”

Jesse’s trying not to yell again and instead is crying from deep in his chest, tears wetting his cheeks and mixing with the blood that coats his face. Gabriel gets him into the small boat and yanks the engine cord. The motor rumbles to life, and he pushes the tiller away, pointing them back up the tributary to the Dnieper itself. The river is lined with towns all the way down to the border—there has to be someplace nearby, someplace with bandages or wound glue or flexfoam. Jesse is sobbing, his arm still around Gabriel’s shoulders; he shifts, curling, pressing his face into Gabriel’s chest.

Gabriel rests a hand on his shuddering back. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna be okay. Just let me make a call.”

This is going to be ugly. He taps his earpiece. “Stalwart, this is Reaper.”

A pause. Gabriel is about to try again when he hears Stockman’s voice. “The fuck do you want now? We talked fifteen minutes ago.”

“Something’s happened.” Gabriel does his best to strain the desperation out of his voice. “Fedorchuk’s guys found us. Yearling’s hurt bad, we need urgent medical evac. Divert the combat unit to come meet us.”

A grunt. “I divert them, Fedorchuk’s trail goes cold. We lose her for good.”

Gabriel shuts his eyes briefly. “Please. He’s losing a lot of blood. I’m gonna try and search for some medical supplies, but…it’s bad.”

No answer. Nothing left for it. “I’ll do whatever you want,” Gabriel continues, wincing as he says it. Handing Stockman a blank check is a bad idea. “No complaints. Just…send the combat unit.”

A long exhale from the other end of the line. “Fine. I’ll bring up your trackers and send the unit to your location. But you owe me one, Reaper. Remember that.”

“I’ll remember.”

The line goes dead. Jesse starts to sit back, his face messy with blood, snot and tears. “I’m s-s—I’m sorry—“

“Goddamnit, kid, I said it’s fine.” Gabriel circles an arm around his back again, pulling him in. Jesse buries his face in Gabriel’s shoulder, letting out another muffled sob.

Gabriel holds him close. That’s all he can do right now. Ahead, the Dnieper glimmers in the moonlight. They speed toward it, piercing the marsh, gliding through the frozen dark.

——

> _L: So what’s the situation?_

_ > S: Reyes and McCree made it back. They’re in the infirmary._

_ > L: Reyes got hurt too?_

_ > S: No. Just sitting at McCree’s bedside like a damn dog._

_ > L: When’s the prosthetic surgery?_

_ > S: Not for a few days. Ukrainian meatheads blew off the wrong fucking arm._

_ > L: You’re kidding._

_ > S: Engineers are putting together another prosthetic. It’ll be ready by the end of the week. The old one will have to be salvaged._

_ > L: Shame. Those things are expensive._

_ > L: How about Reyes? Think we finally got him with this one?_

_ > S: I’m leaning towards yes, but I’m about to go talk to him to close the deal. If we’re lucky that’ll be the last time he ever pushes back on us._

_ > L: About time. We’ve been pressing him for close to two years._

_ > S: One other thing: Reyes owes me a favor from this op. Any thoughts?_

_ > L: Let me think…_

_ > L: Yes, actually. We just got intel on where Wei Guan stashes his wife and kids. Been wanting to send him a message for a while. _

_ > S: Good idea. Tag Reyes for it, I’m going to the infirmary to talk to him now._

——

Gabriel sits in the plastic chair, holding Jesse’s hand.

The kid’s still out. Those pain meds made him pretty sleepy. The stump of his left arm is wrapped in thick white bandages. A few dots of blood have soaked through.

He lost his arm. He’s only nineteen years old. And he’s alone here. When Blackwatch picked him up they cut him off from everyone else he’d ever known. Cruel, Gabriel thought at the time, but the alternative was worse. So he’s nineteen years old and alone.

Except for Gabriel. Which is why he’s holding Jesse’s one remaining hand in both of his own. Kind of sad, when he thinks about it. He’s not a friend or a comrade. He’s a commanding officer. Jesse has to obey him or risk punishment.

It shouldn’t be like that. He’s nineteen years old. Seeing him like this now, asleep, at peace, it’s almost striking. He looks so _young._

Gabriel shifts in his chair. What was _he_ doing at nineteen? Serving his country—spending all his time with Jack then, which hurts to think about now because where has Jack been for the last…what is it now, close to two years? But back in the military they were thick as thieves, Jack smuggling in the whiskey and Gabriel the cigars and the two of them heading out onto the training fields after curfew to sit under the stars and smoke and drink and laugh at shit that shouldn’t have been funny but the booze made them guffaw until their stomachs hurt. That’s what nineteen should be like.

Jesse’s face creases, and he twitches, making a small noise of pain in his sleep. His stump moves.

Gabriel lifts his hand and rubs it absently. This is one thing he can do, at least. To make up for it. He can be here when Jesse wakes up.

Jesse’s eyes slit open.

Slowly, and for a few moments he only blinks at the morphine titration pump, saying nothing. Gabriel sits forward a little. “Hey, kid,” he murmurs.

Jesse’s eyes flick down. “Hm…” He takes in a deep breath. “…boss?”

“Yeah, it’s me. How are you feeling?”

Jesse seems to remember something then, and his gazes darts across his body to the empty bed where his left arm should be lying. His eyes begin to shine, covered over by a sheen of tears. He looks back at Gabriel. “Is it—is it still gone?”

Best to get it over with. “Yeah. But they’re building you a robotic one to replace it.”

“Oh.” His voice is shaky. “Good.”

Gabriel grimaces. It’s not good. “I’m sorry. This shouldn’t have happened.”

Jesse shrugs, the stump lifting awkwardly. “Always knew it might. Deadlock had a couple of guys with metal arms or legs.”

 _It still shouldn’t have happened,_ Gabriel thinks, but he says nothing.

“Hey, you get hurt? Those guys who got after me had guns.”

Gabriel shakes his head. “No, I’m fine.”

“Really?” Jesse puts on a weak smile. “Took ‘em down unarmed? You’re some kinda badass.”

Gabriel returns the smile as best he can. “You’re the one who took out two motorboats with a goddamn revolver. That’s pretty impressive, if you ask me.”

A soft laugh. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m a badass too.” He glances down. “At least they didn’t get my shootin’ arm.”

Fear glimmers at the back of his eyes, a silver coin at the bottom of a well. Gabriel’s chest tightens. “Look, kid,” he mumbles. “If you need anything…”

The door bursts open and Stockman strides in. _“Reyes.”_

Gabriel jumps to his feet. Fuck. “Commander.”

Stockman is a big man and he looms here in the airy infirmary room, his face set in a dangerous glower. “Congratulations, shitstain. You fucked up good this time.”

Gabriel winces, sees how Jesse is trying to disappear into the bedsheets. “Commander, can we take this outs—“

“No, we’re doing this right here! The kid deserves to hear the reason why he’s missing a goddamn arm!”

Gabriel suppresses the flinch. “Yes, sir,” he says quietly.

“I was sending you support.” Stockman flings his hands up. “I was sending you fucking support! And you fucked off anyway! What did you think was gonna happen?! Huh?! Fedorchuk was gonna just—let you go? Blow you a kiss goodbye?”

No. Gabriel knew that about her. Powerful, vindictive. Takes things personally. “No, sir.”

“So you thought, hey, let’s go down the fucking river to a swamp where there’s nowhere to hide and no one coming to cover our asses. That way when someone comes to blow my partner’s arm off, I wouldn’t be able to do jack shit to stop them! That sounds like a great idea!”

“I didn’t think they’d be able to follow us,” Gabriel tries. “We lost the tail—“

“Fedorchuk’s worth millions of dollars, you fucking dunce!” Stockman roars. “You didn’t fucking think! You got scared and bolted! And now you’re feeding me bullshit to try and weasel out of taking responsibility for your own goddamn actions! Jesus Christ, Reyes, you’re fucking pathetic. You should be ashamed of yourself. Look at this kid.” Stockman gestures at Jesse. “He’s gonna have to get a fake arm and he’s, what? Eighteen years old?”

 _Nineteen,_ Gabriel thinks. _He’s nineteen._

Stockman jabs a finger at him. “Let’s be clear: this is on you, Reyes. End of story. Next time, you listen to your superior officer and maybe you won’t get your partner’s other arm blown off because a routine op made you piss your pants and run away like a little kid. Is that understood? _Is that understood?”_

Gabriel remains perfectly still. “Yes, sir.”

Stockman shakes his head. “Fuck, Reyes. Thought you were supposed to be good at this job.” He turns to go, then pauses. “One more thing—you’re reporting to the hanger at oh five hundred tomorrow. Got an op for you in China.” He heads for the door. “Solo this time. Can’t trust you with another operative. Jesus.”

The door swings shut, the latch clicking.

Gabriel just stands there for a moment. His face is hot, his heart thumping in his chest. _You didn’t fucking think! You got scared and bolted!_ It’s true. He was scared. For Jesse. So he just ran. Didn’t look at all the facts. _What did you think was gonna happen?! Fedorchuk was gonna just—let you go? Blow you a kiss goodbye?_ No. He knew that about her.

_What did you think was gonna happen?_

His phone buzzes in his pocket, making him jump nearly out of his skin. He tugs it out and reads the screen. Morrison. Nice of him to fucking call after months of radio silence. Probably wants a chance to chew Gabriel out himself for this clusterfuck of a mission. Gabriel rejects the call and shoves the phone back in his pocket.

“Boss.”

Jesse gazes up, earnest as ever despite the missing arm. His voice is soft with fatigue, pain, both. “I didn’t think it was your fault.” He reaches up and grasps Gabriel’s fingers.

Something surges inside Gabriel, a great wave muddy and black like the one the Omnics sent down the delta to drown New Orleans. He jerks away violently. _“Don’t touch me!”_ he snarls.

Jesse yanks his hand back as if burned and then crushes it to his face. Gabriel realizes he’s burst into tears, his shoulders shuddering with messy sobs.

It stings him to see it. It shouldn’t be like this.

But Gabriel can’t be the one to fix that. Because when he tried to help he got Jesse’s arm blown off instead. He brushes past the bed and strides for the door.

A stifled sob from behind him. Gabriel halts, snared there in the doorway. He reaches out and grasps the threshold lightly. The metal is cool under his fingertips. _Do something, Gabriel. You made him cry, so fix it._ Gabriel hovers a moment more. There's a tear down his middle and he feels every second as if it's growing deeper and deeper, cutting him down to nothing.

The sounds of crying have grown quieter but continue still. Jesse is trying to stop but can’t. Gabriel has to leave now. Now. “I’m sorry, Jesse,” he says.

Then he’s gone.


End file.
